Best Hope, Only Hope
by Kipcha
Summary: "Since you seem to be in an unfortunate mood, I believe I will merely come to the matter in which I wished to discuss, Minister. Tell me where the boy is and I allow you to live."


_Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, although I really wish I did. Maybe I just need a Time Turner... _

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Edited: November 27, 2010

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Scrimgeour sat in his office, going over his most recent encounter with the famed Harry Potter and his friends, Ronald Weasly and Hermione Granger. The three children had seemed particularly eager to receive whatever Dumbledore had left them, even though, other then the Sword of Godric Gryffindor, it had seemed like nothing but a useless collection of sentimental knick knacks and meaningless items.

It was maddening, trying to connect these items to the battle against He Who Must Not Be Named. Surely darkness could have been achieved with simple spells and enchantments, so what was the need of the Deluminator? _The Tales Of Beedle The Bard_, what good could fairy tales possibly do against the biggest threat to the Wizarding World? But most maddening of all was the snitch. What item so small could be useful and why didn't it open when he placed it into the boys hand? He was sure that he had finally achieved the answer when he had thought of the snitch's flesh memory but alas, that too had been a dead end.

He let out a frustrated snarl, his yellowish eyes narrowing in frustration. Running his hand quickly through his mane of greying hair, he stood from his desk and glanced around at the Daily Prophet articles that adorned his wall, their pictures dancing around his room. Everywhere people were dieing, suffering because he wasn't competent enough to end the terror that was happening just below his very nose.

This was why he wanted an alliance with the Chosen One. He could have helped, he would have been a valuable ally. With Harry Potter at his side, with his assitance, triumph over Voldemort was within reach. But Dumbledore got to the boy first. It was so much easier to make Dumbledore his personal scapegoat then blame himself and he knew that it was a weak play. After all, Dumbledore was dead and unable to defend himself against his unjust claims. It simply made tragedy much easier to deal with when he thought he had done everything in his power to prevent it. Without Dumbledore, Harry Potter would be right in the Ministry's hands and at his side, leading the entire wizarding world into the light of a hopeful future.

But as he thought back, perhaps he hadn't come with the right approach. He was so used to no one questioning him that perhaps he should have been more flexible for the boy, led him forward with hopes and dreams as Dumbledore had, the boy could still have been swayed. But then his thoughts turned to the steely emerald eyes, the way they looked at him with such contempt and dissapointment, he knew there was no room for him in Harry Potter's alliance.

Dumbledore's man, through and through.

He shook his head, sighing heavily and turning his gaze to his window. He could have enchanted it to look like anything, to make his day seem perhaps a small bit brighter and restoring his faith that he would lead his people to a brighter tomorrow. But he couldn't do it.

To have the sun shining in from that window would have been a lie. Right now, the world was shadowed in betrayel and lies. Harry Potter had become the sun, the beacon of hope and he had lost that.

_Best hope..._

A crash shattered right outside his door, causing the floor to vibrate beneath his feet. He wasted no time in grabbing his wand, ignoring the tiniest shiver of fear that wracked his old, tired frame. Bracing himself, he limped over to his door and without a moments hesitation, pulled it open. Before his very eyes, a war was taking place. Brilliant flashes of red, green and blue were flying through the air, a flash of purple narrowly missing his ear as it flew into his office.

His attention was drawn and focused on Kingsley Shacklebolt dueling with an incredibly deranged looking woman, one that he would never forget. After all, he himself had hunted her for years and he could still remember the day when he had seen her face once more on the cover of the Daily Prophet, documtenting her escape. Bellatrix Lestrange cackled with pure, insane joy.

Tensing, he was about to rush out to help his comrads when he froze instantly, his insticts telling him that something was about to happen, something he would not like.

A white hand materialised before him through thin airm, shrouded in black smoke and pushed him back. Slightly off balance from his previously injured leg, he stumbled back, trying to catch himself and cursing his limp for the thousandth time since recieving it. He felt himself catch his desk and listened as the door slammed, effectively silencing the chaos that was still warring just outside of it. His eyes widened when a skull white face with gleaming red eyes and snakelike nostrils appeared before him, a smile widening on his thin, lipless mouth.

"Hello, Minister." He hissed, locking the door behind him with a casual flick of his wand. Scrimgeour felt a small part of himself die as the click sounded, signalling that his only escape had been lost.

Despite Rufus's outwardly defiant and solemn appearance, he could feel the need hide well up inside of him, the natural instinct to save his own skin probing him stubbornly but he ignored it. He crushed his natural instinct and fear down and stood before The Dark Lord.

"To what do we owe the honour?" Spat Scrimgeour, now standing his full height and staring Lord Voldemort down. To his disgust, the dark wizard merely seemed amused.

"Temper." Breathed Voldemort, "We must learn to control your tongue, Minister."

Scrimgeour scoffed. "I only use civil tongue when people worthy of it address me. Not scum such as youself."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed dangerously and he fingered his wand slowly, a snap of green sparks showering at his touch.

"Since you seem to be in a... unfortunate mood, I believe I will merely come to the matter in which I wished to discuss, Minister." Voldemort tilted his head, his scarlet eyes boring into what felt like his very soul. "Tell me where the boy is and I allow you to live."

"Surely you do not expect me to believe that you will allow me to waltz happily out of my office if I give you Potter's whereabouts?" Snapped Scrimgeour, genuinely insulted. "Perhaps under the influence of the Imperius Curse, which is not much of an offer, I must admit. Death or servitude to yourself, it seems like your reward is promising something worse then your threat. I'm dissapointed."

Voldemort's eyes flickered at the challenge, but kept himself tall and cryptic, not yet allowing his true emotions to show through his mask.

_Only Hope..._

"Then allow me to loosen your tongue, Minister." He said smoothly and Scrimgeour quickly braced himself for what he knew was coming. "_Crucio_!"

Pain exploded in the older mans body, causing him to writhe in pain, but never once did he allow a sound to leave him. He was sure his insides were burning, melting and being mutated into something unnatural. No spell, hex, jinx or even curse could ever possibly hurt this terribly, but he had never experienced this level of hatred from an individual before. He forced himself to open his eyes and glared defiantly up at Voldemort, waiting for the pain to end.

But the torture continued for what felt like an eternity, Voldemort's snake eyes mocking and full of glee at his misery. For a moment, Crimgeour wondered if that jeering face was going to be the last thing he saw before he died.

Stars appeared in his vision, flecking out Voldemort's face and he closed them tightly, trying to curl into a ball and pull himself away from the torture. It was growing unbearable, he wasn't entirely sure how much longer he could take. Merlin, it felt like years. How could something cause so much pain and not kill him?

Finally, it was lifted. Breathing deeply to pull cool air into his lungs and gasping weakly at the sudden relief, Rufus tried to stand but failed, tumbling back down to the ground as Rufus cursed himself for his weakness. Despite his best effort, he felt pain tears well but he refused to allow the to fall.

He noticed a slightly worried look in Voldemorts eyes, as if he were slightly anxious that he had pushed him to the limit already and perhaps lost his possibly only reliable source to finding Harry Potter. But in a second, the second that Scrimgeour spat on the hem of his robes, that flicker was gone and replaced by its old, cool gleam.

_Must Protect_...

Voldemort leaned down close to the mans face, his cool breath hissing in his ear. "Where is Harry Potter?"

Scrimgeour turned his head, his lips moving weakly. The Dark Lord leaned in a little to hear the mans weak words better, waiting as he attempted to regain his breath.

"Burn in hell." With his remaining strength, he spat in the Dark Lord's face.

His red eyes filled with rage, he raised his wand. Scrimgeour closed his eyes, waiting for the ax to swing.

"You first." He snarled coldly, "_Avada Kedavra_!"

The green light hit Scrimgeour square in his chest and the light of life left his eyes almost instantly. Disappointed, without a second glance to the old man who lay spread eagle on the floor, Lord Voldemort walked out of the door, his black cloak sweeping behind him. His wand still drawn, he went to aid his followers that were too weak to defend themselves. They would die later in Lucius's room for their incompetence.

Although no life moved within the old, aged Minister, the light of his last thought still burned in his old yellow eyes.

_We must protect our only hope. Harry Potter, Forgive Me._


End file.
